


As the Sparrow Sings

by fireflystorm



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Childhood Friends, Explicit Language, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflystorm/pseuds/fireflystorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow / did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be / young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh. / I hated you when it would have taken less courage / to love. " -Bukowski</p>
<p>For three weeks, it had started like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As the Sparrow Sings

For three weeks it had started like this: a late-night phone call and a knock on the door, the sound of pouring vodka into too-big cups, hot movement contrasting the gentle, softly falling snow accumulating on doorsteps. Routine was a comfort, now. In and of itself, as well, must winter be comforting.

The house was chilly. She had a fire going, but it was too small. There was a pot of coffee brewing to the sound of Mozart in the far background. It was nearly nine-o-clock, and Rose was awaiting company. The call had come at eight-thirty on the dot and her visitor was expected any time, any second now. She supposed perhaps she ought to shovel the snow at some point, but if it meant leaving the warmth then he could come to her, himself.

As if on cue the doorbell rang through the house, echoing, and Rose shivered, heading over to the door. She rubbed her forearms beyond her sweater sleeves, but she didn't need to check the peephole; only a select few had ever bothered to come out so far into the woods to her home. Unlocking and opening the door, she was greeted by a flurry of tiny snowflakes and a man who seemed tired but not displeased, though his mouth didn't smile.

Without any real show of a greeting, she stood aside for him to enter, closed the door, and let him see to his coat and hat. She proceeded to the kitchen as he shook the snow from his shoulders and placed his boots on the mat; he'd been here enough to know the routine.

“Coffee?” Rose offered, already pouring her own.

“Extra strong,” he answered with the faintest ghost of a smile, proceeding into the den past statues of non-judgmental wizards and a bronzed vacuum to which he had not yet asked the story of. He removed his fogged sunglasses from his face and set them upon the table. Rose poured Bailey's into either mug of hot liquid and brought them in, sitting next to him on the soft leather couch.

“David,” she addressed him.

“Rosaline,” he answered.

They sipped their coffee.

“How much time do I have for pleasantries?”

“Not much, now.”

She made a clicking sound with her tongue as he gave the answer, then swallowed another mouthful of liquored coffee. He followed suit, the same echoed smile on his lips.

Rose removed her scarf. Mozart played softly in the background from a distance. His hand found her thigh. She didn't move. He went on. His hand felt hot moving from her knee up her skirt. She shimmied out of it, letting the white fabric pool at her feet. She moved, sitting on the coffee table directly in front of Dave. Her hands went up his chest beneath his shirt, nails giving him chills.

The snow kept falling outside, piling up in the drive and on the doorstep. The fire behind the hearth crackled. Hot flesh touched hot flesh.

The coffee sat untouched.

 

 

Dave watched her after, with his eyes bare for once. She laid with her face to him, but her eyes were closed – he knew she wasn't asleep, but wondered what she might be dreaming if she were. For three weeks it had gone like this. The first time she had looked at him with shrewd lilac eyes and asked if she were a joke to him. He had said, No, you've never been a joke. I take you very seriously.

She laughed in an odd way and he carried out his lust on this frigid, beautiful woman. It was damn near shameful and occasionally he detested himself, but he told her it meant nothing more than human sin and she seemed fine with that.

Each time he had disappeared by morning. Each time there was less time for pleasantries.

Rose's pale, naked skin looked rosy and warm from the fire. Dave felt chilled and moved closer to her, just a tad, and closed his eyes. Rose sighed deeply.

She was fine with that.

 

 

The morning came with the abrupt chill of the fire going out. Dave put his share of the quilt over the sleeping Rose and picked up his clothes from the floor. He shivered, standing stark naked and semi-erect in the mansion, before heading to the bathroom near the kitchen with his clothes. Morning light from the shuttered windows fell in straight lines on his freckled back and it was a little warmer than the house itself, he supposed.

He went to piss and yawned, checking his phone with his free hand.

_'hookin up w/ ur girl?'_ from some vague acquaintance, last night. That was all, save a singular text from his brother also from last night that Dave had never bothered to answer. He set the phone down and pulled on his clothes before he answered: ' _fucked to mozart_ '.

He looked at himself in the mirror. It was dim, and the light from the semicircle stained-glass window made him look unnatural. He was a mess, with uncombed hair and marks on his neck just barely visible above his baseball shirt's neckline. Dave put on his sunglasses and hid his ruby red irises behind them. He stood for a long moment there, staring and thinking, and gingerly touching the bruises at his collar, before he turned from the mirror and headed to the front door.

Without a thought he pulled on his coat and his scarf and pulled on his boots, and then he stood there, two feet from the doorway, in silence. Beyond the patterned window it was white with last night's snow, but it wasn't falling just then. Dave wasn't sure what held him up – judging by the time on his phone it was eight, and soon Rose would be awake, so he ought to go. She'd make tea or coffee for the morning – he felt a vague shame in not knowing which – and turn on music. Her cat would come from her room and curl on her shoulder as she read _War and Peace_ in the armchair before the smoldering, dying fire.

“Won't you stay for breakfast?”

He turned to look at her. She wore only her lilac sweater and underwear, but her hair seemed hardly displaced and she was still as mind-numbingly beautiful as she always had been. Dave's better judgment said to leave in dishonor and not think about it again. His lesser judgment asked how he could possibly refuse her, as her smooth, calm voice broke down his resolve in any situation he could possibly imagine.

“I...” _Have something to do? Really should go?_ “Sure. I'll stay.”

 

 

Rose made crepes for breakfast. Strawberry, and topped with whipped cream. Somehow, Dave wasn't surprised that she could cook so well, when he took his first bite and entered pastry heaven. He wondered if, before her mother had died, she had given the hungover woman breakfast in bed with a cup of coffee and two aspirin. It seemed like the sort of thing she'd do, he thought as she sat down next to him.

The table was made for a max of six people but clearly never used, if the dust was any indication. Rose sipped her tea with an enigmatic sort of smile, watching Dave wolf down his breakfast.

“I'm glad you like it.”

She gave a sort of laugh when he responded with a full mouth, “it's great!” She had changed, now, into a pair of soft black jeans and a patterned Christmas sweater, though she didn't particularly care for the holiday. Dave thought that she looked so practiced, as though she were on stage playing a part.

“Why don't you stay for breakfast more often, Monsieur Strider?”

Dave swallowed hard. “Well, I...” They both knew that any lies, any falsehoods, were entirely purposeless here. They both understood the nature of the game they were playing. “I probably should have a few times, I guess.”

Rose gave a smile. She understood his apprehension perfectly. The first time, he had made that clear. He'd had it hot for her, he said, and he wanted her. But that was all. Nothing more than misguided lust and a lack of commitment and the absence of a meaningful relationship in either of their lives. Not that this was supposed to fill the void, but it helped. It helped to defuse the frustration and tension of the day-to-day.

“Don't worry,” she said with a shrug, holding her mug of tea with both hands, “I'm not expecting anything of you. Only the routine. A call before you come, and come no later than ten.”

Something in him made him feel guilty. When they were younger they had been friends. They had talked, and joked and she had played violin and he had beat-boxed. They called it 'modern classic' and tried to market it on the internet to other thirteen year old kids. It felt so strange, now, that they were sitting at this table as friends but ones who didn't particularly have any sort of emotional connection. Rose felt little of the sort; she had mostly given up relationships of any intimate sort. If life were a game, then to lose would be to become compromised.

She was fine with that. Somehow, Dave was not.

 

 

On the twentieth day of December, the doorbell rang through the house rather early. It was six in the evening, so darkness was just starting to fall over New York in that place where Rose lived since her childhood, quite far from most civilized places and self-sustaining in its entirety. Rose, too, was self-sustaining in her entirety. She could live most of her entire life without ever venturing out of her home save to fetch a few groceries here and there.

She pulled herself from _The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills_ , removing herself from the strange poetic world and the armchair upon which she sat. Giving Jaspers Jr. a pat – reciprocated by loud purring – she moved to the door, opening it and raising sculpted eyebrows at the sight of Dave. He having returned without call and at such an odd hour was an odd sight indeed.

“Good evening, David,” Rose greeted him oddly. “Can I help you?”

He had an odd look on his face, she thought. Dave looked as though he were a troubled child with something to say but who had not yet learned the words with which to say it. His mouth was in a tight line and he was a little flushed under his freckles, just beneath the arcs of his sunglasses which Rose thought altogether unnecessary considering the time of day. He nodded in response to her and gestured inside the house, “Can I come in?”

“I suppose you may,” she answered a little lopsidedly, stepping back from the door. “I must say, though, it's a little early. I haven't even eaten yet.”

Rose trailed off as she closed the door after him and headed into the den without thought for making something to drink. If he had called before she might have had it more together, and she thought that matter-of-factually with no resentment, really. She didn't mind so much his having broken the 'established' rules; they were just generalities for their empty relationship and if he broke them once it was all right. The more often, however, the more pushing the bounds of a relationship almost bordering love or romance and that had been the condition. Neither of them had entered this odd agreement looking for love.

“I'm not here for.. that,” Dave answered damn near shyly, and she had to glance back at him to see if it was really his mouth voicing those words. He took off his shoes and followed her to the den. “I mean, I'm not here to fuck. I wanted to talk.”

She perched on the armchair, her knees pulled to her chest, and cocked her head a little. “Is there something you wanted to tell me, mon amour? Are you ending things now because you've found true love?” She smirked just slightly, but for Dave there was no telling what was really going on in her head. There was no way for him to tell that she did appreciate the company.

He shook his head as he sat down. “Nah. Besides, you're the only girl for me,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, _do_ go on,” Rose quipped, as Jaspers strutted over to Dave and rubbed his black fur on his pants' legs. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

In their youth, it had been like this, and that had never changed. Sarcastic and ironic quips and back-and-forth over and over, pandering to false personae and slicing into deep-set insecurities and issues. When Rose was younger she had dabbled enough in psychology that around this point in a conversation she could probably already tell what Dave wanted to say and had on his mind. At the time, he had been the “cool kid”, guaranteed to never say what he meant and double back on a web of irony so convoluted no one had any idea what it meant anymore, including him.

Of course, now he knew that she was not the ice queen of of intellect but more or less a rather introverted but sensitive spirit who enjoyed wizard fantasy and acting. In a similar vein, she knew that he was not a laid-back, unemotional master of cool, but instead a somewhat troubled man who preferred to keep emotions safely compartmentalized away from any facet of his day-to-day life of partying and keeping up a facade.

“I was up, all of today. I was thinking, what authors does Rose read, and do you prefer coffee or tea?” He started calmly, looking off. At least, he was looking off as far as she could tell.

“All of them,” she answered quickly. “Dostoevsky, Kafka, Hemingway, Thoreau. I read all of them.”

“All of them, huh,” he replied with a smirk. “So I could quiz you on some shit like, Chbosky and you'll give me a coherent answer?”

“Have you been reading young adult literature lately?”

“I might have been.”

Rose laughed. It had been a while since he had heard her just laugh, and not chuckle or chortle or laugh in that stupid subtle way she always did to make it seem like she were in on something she'd never tell him about. She had seemed so serious ever since she and the others had started college. Dave hadn't, but that was less because he wasn't intelligent and more because he was unambitious and “something to do with screwing the establishment”. At any rate, her laugh made him laugh a little, too, even if it was at his expense.

“Shut up, it was a good book.”

“Fair enough. At any rate, I've at least dabbled in most of the classical authors and poets. I'm not sure what else I could tell you.”

“Who's your favorite?” He asked, almost before she'd finished speaking. “I don't read a lot. I haven't since high school. I liked ' _Anthem_ ', about that guy who does that stuff. You know, he leaves the City and marries Gaia and it's all some big metaphor for individuality and shit.”

“Right, Ayn Rand,” Rose responded thoughtfully. “My professor asked for an essay about her work in relation to the modern world. I've read ' _Anthem_ ', ' _The Fountainhead_ ' and ' _Atlas Shrugged_ ' and two of her nonfiction works. I'm surprised you liked that book, actually.”

Dave drummed his fingers on his leg, listening to her talk, not impatient. Even the first time out of three weeks, they hadn't really sat down and talked. He'd come in from the cold and asked how was college, and if she'd talked to John or Jade lately, and she'd asked more or less the same of him before he made his intentions clear. Small talk which meant little and was only a preface for equally meaningless sex.

“Yeah, it was actually pretty good. Except I didn't like the point of view. Using 'we' made me think of some fucking trippy shit like a two-headed dude sitting in the halls of Satan's vast bowels talking to me.”

“That's an, uh, interesting point of view, Strider.” Rose paused. “At any rate, I don't think I have a favorite – I liked Tolstoy's ' _Anna Karenina_ ' a lot and read it a few times. I also liked Nietzsche's work. I suppose hands-down my favorite author in general as far as many times read would have to be Lovecraft. Is that too cliché?”

He laughed, and so did she. 

 

 

It was three and a half hours later and they were both splayed over the couch and armchair respectively, with Jaspers Jr. curled on Dave's chest, and they were still talking. Talking about nothing and everything. Talking about winter holidays at the University of Rochester and how Rose's roommate had covered the dorm in fairy lights and glitter snowmen. Talking about how Dave was slated to talk to a few people about getting Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff on one of those Adult Swim lineups of ironically shitty cartoons for adults in a few weeks.

“By the way,” Rose said out of the blue in the midst of a momentary silence, “I prefer tea in the morning and coffee in the evenings.”  
Dave remembered what he had said coming in and smiled a little. “Now I know,” he said.

“Now you know,” she echoed. After a slight pause, she asked, “Why did you come here to ask me so many questions about … things? It's been a while since you've actually sat down and talked to me.” It wasn't bitterly that she said it, but only factually.

He thought for a long time on that question; or at least, what felt like a long time. Jaspers Jr. breathed softly in and out on his chest and he watched the black fur rise and fall as he thought. What had driven him here to sit and talk for a few hours and just do nothing and lay on Rose Lalonde's couch? It would have been too ridiculous to tell her he'd been thinking all day about standing in the doorway debating leaving or going back and laying down in front of the hearth with her. It would have been too absurd to mention that he wanted to know not only what her lips felt like on his collarbones but on his lips.

He wanted to know the things she told her friends and significant others.

“I thought it was weird,” he started, then shrugged, “that I know what it's like to be inside you but not, like, inside your head.” He paused. “Okay, I could have phrased that better.”

“Please do not stick your penis inside my skull.”

They both laughed at the vulgarity and absurdity. It relieved Dave's tension.

“I guess I just wanted to remember what it was like to totes be your number one bffsie.” He made a face at her and she snickered.

“You could just say you missed me,” Rose answered, standing and stretching. She unbuttoned her cardigan, first revealing her breasts and then her stomach. “Would you like to take this upstairs?”

Dave grinned. He felt close to her again, now. Just like totes number one bffsies with benefits.

 

 

Rose fucked like she was in a porno every time. She stage moaned and arched her back in angles that might have made da Vinci question his model choices. Did he _have_ to paint Mona Lisa's face? Rose's skin was a light gold and speckled with freckled constellations here and there and Dave made a practice of kissing and licking from point A to point B. She looked like she had never worked a day in her life.

Her room hadn't grown up a day since she was thirteen and they used Skype's videochat to talk; Eldritch posters and a mess of sheet music and half-finished knitting projects and books were everywhere. Dave felt a little judged by the _VOTE DAGON_ poster across from the bed as Rose straddled him, eyes glaring from the monstrous silhouette.

It felt different this time, less like sex.

She had laughed at him when he was already erect after she had removed his shirt and thrown it aside, nails running over his skin and making him shiver, until they stopped at his pants line. Then she had laughed, but not cruelly, and he had huffed a little and said “ _You_ try having a penis,” and she answered “Try thinking with your _other_ head”. And then she'd taken off his jeans and boxers just like that, licking down his shaft, massaging his testicles with her thumb. 

She did some kind of acrobatic move in pulling herself onto the bed and he kissed her breasts and licked between them up to her collarbones where he strategically placed bites away from the ones which remained from before. Rose moved down, down, teasing him, never touching his cock.

It was just like their snark. Dancing around a topic, sarcastically teasing one another. It was just like that, in the form of the most frustrating and simultaneously most satisfying sex Dave had ever had. When she finally lowered herself onto him it was such a relief he nearly had to keep from blowing it right then and there. He counted as she moved up and down and guided his hand to her clit. One, two... eleven, twelve... 

He wondered if she moaned like that with her significant others. He wondered if she looked satisfied after sex with them and if she curled in their arms and whether or not they stayed in the mornings.

Rose inhaled sharply when he came inside her and she pulled off but he rolled onto his side to keep pleasuring her until she felt release, too. He wondered how many times she'd been with someone else. He wondered if they paid attention to her orgasms. He wondered if they saw her cry out in ecstasy when she came and arch her back and if they cupped her breasts then, too, and kissed her neck.

With a poster of Charles Bukowski looming on the wall, he wondered if they had ever even existed.

 

 

In the morning, Dave stayed. Rose opened her eyes with a quiet, soft groan. There were a few new marks and she wasn't really any more sore than before, but she found that she was still in a sleepy embrace, his freckled arms laid over her. She squeezed out from under him, trying actively not to wake him, and glanced at the clock. It was ten in the morning, and he was still there. She didn't know what that meant, but somehow she was glad for it.

She headed to the bathroom and in the mirror examined the red marks and hickeys. It was as if she certainly belonged to someone, yet she didn't. In fact, she was an entirely independent person since her mother had died. Formerly, she had been, as well, but there had been a certain routine.

Mrs. Lalonde would be out all night and it had less to do with partying and a significant amount more to do with late-night research jams. But when she hit a standstill in her work, or her inventions fell through, she turned to the alcohol. She'd come home reeking of it, slurring and stumbling in her high-heeled boots. Rose, just a child, didn't understand depression or alcoholism. She didn't understand why mommy didn't make dinner that night or why she came into Rose's room and cried at her bedpost and stroked her hair, blubbering things which she couldn't make out.

She only understood, then, that the drinks in the pretty bottles made mommy feel better, and where the aspirin was in the mornings when mother was sleepy and grumpy.

Of course, that was a different time, and Rose thought of herself now to be a different person. She climbed into the shower and ran the hot water and bathed, humming to herself and pointedly not thinking about her mother with the drinking problem or her elementary school friends who didn't know what “hangover” meant or why on those nights Rose never got enough sleep and, exhausted, dozed during recess. Having friends, she supposed, was more a liability than an asset.

Dave was also a liability. His sandy blonde hair and lopsided smile, and his sarcastic laugh when she said something he found ridiculous; she had missed those traits from when they were friends, or children. She missed also John and Jade, but had as of recent kept them at an arms-length. Sadness would drive her back to the bottles which tempted her mother. Her inner child desperately wanted to cling to Dave Strider; because he was here, she thought, and if she held with all her might she would have someone to cling to which she had never had before. The things she would cling to would fall away before her. Nothing lasts.

She shut off the water and pushed back the curtain. Love, she thought to herself, is the worst of liabilities.

 

 

Dave returned to his apartment at around noon. He'd made Rose tea – he'd had to guess which ones were appropriate to drink in the morning, and settled on 'English Breakfast' solely because it had the word 'breakfast' in it. They'd had their tea while eating muffins and discussing upcoming Christmas celebrations, and mostly criticizing the hypocrisy of Thanksgiving and Christmas and their extreme consumerism despite philosophies of gratitude. Normally he would've thought it was far too early in the morning for philosophical bullshit, but the conversation seemed natural between the two of them somehow. It was like he could call her at two am and discuss the ingredients of Taco Bell burritos or show up at Starbucks at five and talk about the nature of the universe according to various historical thinkers' philosophies and both of those would be perfectly normal for them.

He liked that.

When he came back to his apartment he fumbled with the keys a little bit, his fingers chilled from the cold, and then he cursed for at least thirty seconds when he couldn't manage to get his key in the lock. Finally he entered the shoddy apartment and it felt a lot less lived-in than the Lalonde estate. Dave could certainly afford better, or at least something more welcoming, but it was just a place to live, he reasoned. He didn't need a huge apartment and he could furnish it with whatever he saw fit.

It was sort of a mess, and mostly littered with a ton of paperwork which he couldn't be bothered to actually pick up and sort out. In one corner there were some terrible smuppets that, though he had come to dislike, couldn't bring himself to throw away. He had some turntables, too, that hadn't been touched in a long time, and countless drawings of SBaHJ covering tabletops and tacked onto the walls.

In his bedroom, his mattress was on the floor, along with two or three quilts, and a close-by space heater. He flopped down onto a zebra-print bean bag chair, pulling his phone from his pocket. He texted his brother, not particularly expecting an answer. He sent: ' _status report: sbahj will be a full run next season if i get in good now. been meeting up w rose for a few weeks. cold as fuck in nyc_ '

After that, Dave put his phone back in his pocket and sat there, staring at the ceiling. He found himself thinking that this wasn't really where he wanted to be. He felt mismatched and out of place sitting there on the gaudy chair, in his messy apartment, and somehow he thought cleaning really wouldn't help, either. He had the vague notion he'd started to blend in with Rose's wallpaper and furniture, his yellows and pale reds on beige and lavender.

He set himself to work drawing, leaving his coat there in his room as he sat at the table. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn't hear it. A single reply from his brother.

' _Proud of you._ '

 

 

On December twenty-third, the shopping center was packed. It was almost hard to believe so many people were there just a day and a half before Christmas, shopping for last-minute gifts. Still, Dave knew it would be even worse tomorrow, and continue on that way until stores closed for the twenty-fifth. By a few days after it'd be deserted by comparison, and he knew he'd be driving past, looking at it from a cab window on his way to his meeting with the producer. Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff getting on the air would be one hell of a Christmas present, late or not.

At any rate, Dave pushed through the crowds and window-shopped. There were a ridiculous amount of things on display; the mannequins wore silk robes and soft sweaters. A nearby Bath & Body Works had strange mixes of scents wafting in the air, and he could already see the ignorant jerks spraying the perfume everywhere with no concern. It was somewhat overwhelming. A few times, he lingered in the doorways of shops, only to end up sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, wondering whether it were even a good idea to be there.

A woman stopped somewhat nearby to him, not much older than he was, and tapped at her phone once or twice. She seemed a little dazed, and in a sudden bout of extroversion approached her.

“Miss,” he asked, cursing his slight implacable accent, “I was wondering if you could help me out.”

“Oh, sure,” she answered, looking up at him. She wore circular glasses reminiscent of John Lennon, and her skin was dark and nice. Dave thought she probably could have been a model if she'd liked.

“Well, it won't take long. I'm here to get a gift for some girl and I don't know what the fuck girls like. Do girls like preserved specimens?”

The stranger raised an eyebrow. Perfectly manicured, too, just like the rest of her. In fact, he could see now her bag was Louis Vuitton or one of those other fancy designer brands, and her nails were painted masterfully. Everything about her seemed name-brand and high-class, and he was sort of surprised that she was even giving him the time of day. Then, out of nowhere, she bubbled up in laughter.

“I don't know, you've gotta tell me something about her first! What does she like to do? Or wear? Is she your girlfriend or friend or sister or cousin? Tell me _something_!”

Dave thought about it for a long minute. “It's complicated,” he answered frankly. “But she's kind of quiet and sarcastic. Bitchin' taste in books, I guess; she'll read anything. Likes dead stuff, I think – at least, she likes horror and tentacles and shit. Drinks a lot of tea and coffee. Is that good or should I write a full-on novel? A fuckin' two hundred page book literally just listing out her quirks. An audio book narrated in the voice of an angry Italian Morgan Freeman, psychoanalyzing the hell out of her. Sounds about right.”

The stranger laughed again, and grabbed his hand. Dave thought she said something like “you sure do talk a lot” as she led him off, black hair in a long, long ponytail bobbing as she walked. Just like that, and without even knowing her name, she was leading him around and asking about Rose. _Does she like Indian teas? I know just the thing._ Or sometimes, _Does she have pets? What kind of clothes does she like and do you know her size? Maybe some pretty jewelry._ Dave couldn't really believe that she thought _he_ was the one who talked a lot.

Finally, exhausted, he pulled the girl to a stopping point. “I'm starting to think this is a lost cause,” he exhaled, feet aching and head following suit. “I'll just make a card from printer paper, spack some glitter on it and call it Christmas.”

The well-dressed stranger turned to him and huffed, putting her dainty hands on her hips. She was almost the stereotypical visage of femininity, but at the same time Dave got the idea that he could punch her in the gut right now and it wouldn't even faze her. She stuck out her lower lip like a child.

“Look here, mister dude,” she started with attitude, “you've shot down all my perfectly good gift ideas! You and your too-cool-for-school sunglasses like you can't even look at anyone else's eyes!” Suddenly, as she continued to speak, her voice softened. “I think you're just worried that whatever you get for her won't be good enough, so why don't you just make her something? She sounds like the kind of girl who would really like handmade, thought-out gifts. I bet it'd make her smile even if all you gave her was macaroni art spelling out 'Merry XMAS'.”

Her smile wasn't accusing or bitter. Dave liked her, he decided just then. He gave a little shrug and half-smile, almost but not quite apologetic.

“I guess that's just how I am,” he acknowledged. “I probably would've freaked the fuck out until Christmas if you hadn't said that, though, so... thanks, or something.”

The stranger smiled even brighter, a feat which bordered on the impossible. She shrugged her shoulders in her fur coat and winked. “Yeah, you can call me a Christmas miracle! I'll see you around, dude-man. Merry Christmas!”

Dave didn't get her name, or her number. As it were, he was certain he'd never see her again.

 

 

On the twenty-fourth, Rose hadn't seen Dave in two days. It was getting late, so she didn't expect to see him anyway. It wasn't exactly that she had been waiting around for him, but had indeed been expecting him regardless. She supposed that she ought to adjust to “things as normal” – if he got his break with his comic, he'd have to move on. Maybe he'd make it really big, she thought, and go to Hollywood and make 'ironically' terrible movies.

She smiled at the thought.

At any rate, University would start back up for the spring semester. She'd get her degree, go to the graduation party and get on with her life. She had a decent social life at school that passed for 'talking to people' and a decent following of fellow writers she conversed with online. Yes, she reasoned, everything would be entirely normal.

The doorbell rang. Two visits now it hard started like that; no call beforehand, just showing up unexpectedly and talking about writers and life. As she rose from her seat she murmured, “I'm beginning to think you're psychic,” and opened the door, Jaspers Jr. circling her feet.

Just like before, Dave stood there in the dark, illuminated primarily by the light from inside her home. His bright red-and-yellow parka was only slightly illuminated, and his hands were stuck in his pockets, shades resting on the crown of his head.

“Hold the applause, ma'am, I know it's not every day a celebrity drops by.”

“Actually,” Rose interjected, eyebrow cocked, “it _is_ every day.”

“There is a difference,” he countered, entering as she stepped aside, “between every day and _almost_ every day.”

She thought that their interaction was becoming something so commonplace, that there would be a void where it was when it ended. Rose had become used to his presence, his coming in whether welcomed or not; setting up shop on her couch, or his skin hot against hers, or his breathing deep and rhythmic. Honestly, she didn't even mind the light snoring in the dead of night, whereas she'd resented her mother's drunken snore. It was comfortable familiarity.

Dave took off his parka and shook the snow from his hair like a dog shaking water from his fur. From there, it was the usual. Rose poured tea from the boiling water she'd had on the stove, prepared, and they sat adjacent to one another; herself in the armchair, him on the couch, laying diagonally across it. The grandfather clock – although really just a wizard statue with an embedded clock – said ten-thirty. 

“So,” Dave started, “no eggnog? No tree?”

She shrugged. “Christmas is not something I'm particularly fond of.”

“Did you celebrate it as a kid?”

“Not particularly.” Her response was coupled with an indifferent shrug. “Mother wasn't fond of it. Or any of those sorts of holidays, really. She got me gifts so I'd fit in with the other children, but that's more or less it.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, Strider Christmases weren't so fantastic either. Not that I'm complaining. Who needs a tree's corpse to dance around to feel the real holiday cheer?” He paused. “Besides, taking perfectly innocent trees from their families isn't very 'Christlike'. They might've had kids and wives, you don't know. Anyway, all I need is some good old fashioned liquor to celebrate.”

Rose laughed at that, nodding in agreement and raising her tea. “It may not be alcoholic, but I'll drink to that.”

Dave smiled in that half-cocked way he did, nodding and sitting up on the couch so he could raise his mug as well. “To baby's first Christmas.”

“To old friends.”

They drank their hot tea and smiled at one another, falling then into silence. Dave played Candy Crush on his phone and Rose doodled swirls on the notepad next to her chair. Jaspers Jr curled on his owner's lap, occasionally purring and flicking his tail in a rather contented display. Time ticked by, accompanied by a little chatting, somehow simply at ease in their mutual company.

Dave looked up at the clock, then at the fire which Rose was prodding with an iron. He'd helped her put on some more firewood, and watched her just then, illuminated in the glow. “Rose?” He addressed her. “You know, it's almost midnight.”

“It is,” she agreed, turning back to him.

He gave an odd look with a slight smirk. “Well, shouldn't you do something about the fire? In case of visitors. You know, typical vandals, coming through the chimney.”

“I think,” she began, “the fire is perfect for finally roasting that fat bastard this year.”

They both laughed, drinking peppermint tea and talking about everything and nothing. Dave talked about the stranger he'd met at the shopping center; Rose talked about the way the mailman, in delivery a package to her, had slipped and broken his nose on her icy stone pathway. Neither knew weather she was liable to pay for his injuries. Time crept on till midnight struck and the wizard clock played a short tune reminiscent of the Legend of Zelda.

“Merry Christmas, Rose,” Dave said, looking over at her with the most genuine smile she'd ever seen on the Strider's sarcastic face. That melted her resolve. Her lavender eyes looked back fondly at him, and she smiled, too – more gently than normal. “Merry Christmas, Dave.”

After a long moment which held a tinge of tension of some sort, Dave spoke. “Do you mind,” he began, “if I stay the night? It hurts to say, but, no sex. Well, unless you _really_ want...”

Rose looked at him uncertainly. “I suppose,” she agreed with the slightest of nods, “although you'll have to sleep in the guest room.”

“Aw, Rose. You're making me feel like a second class citizen.”

 

 

When Rose retired, Dave was still sitting in the living room. She told him to behave and waggled a finger at him, suppressing her smile. Then she left to her room, making sure to mention that his was the one across from hers. After a short time sitting alone, Dave got up and got to work, looking through several rooms until he found what he deemed was probably the 'craft room', with paper and glitter and glue littered everywhere.

After a bit of moving around, he found an X-Acto knife and a decent-sized box to take a slap of cardboard from. He drew the conksukiest looking tree he possibly could and cut it out, sticking a star on top from copy paper he'd scribbled on with yellow highlighter. He stuck on multicolored poofs for ornaments and scribbled quite a lot of green onto the pine base. Finally, after all was said and done, he reached into the pocket of his parka for Rose's gift.

“Alright, Mr. Grinch,” he said, looking over his work which was set up on the coffee table, “just this once, don't steal Christmas.”

Dave proceeded up the stairs, turning off the lights which Rose had left for him as he went. Down the hall from there he recognized Rose's room and looked momentarily at the door, then headed into the guest room across from it. The room was immaculate if dusty, and he stripped down to his boxers. After pulling back the comforter, he flopped onto the bed and turned out the lamp. He laid there for a long time, eyes closed but awake, until he heard a soft sort of tapping sound.

He immediately sat up and saw a girl, short and punchy in her silk pajamas. It wasn't little Cindy Lou-Who. Rose walked over to the bed.

“Are you awake?” She whispered.

“No, I am deeply asleep.”

Rose climbed into the bed, wiggling under the comforter. She faced Dave, and they looked at one another in the dim light, not saying anything for a moment. 

“Missing me already?”

It was quiet for a second before she answered. “Couldn't sleep.”

They laid like that for a long time, listening to one another breathe. After a while, Dave wasn't sure whether or not she was awake; he could see her shoulder rising and falling rhythmically, and he felt the immense desire to talk to her. He wanted to shake her shoulder and say, _Let's watch The Nightmare before Christmas. I'll make coffee. Let's build snowmen and pretend to murder each other with ice spears._

“I didn't come here to celebrate Christmas. You probably already knew that,” he mused aloud in a whisper. Just in case. He didn't know what possessed him, honestly, to talk. “It'd probably take some kind of idiot to not realize that.”

Something was easier in the idea of talking to a wall. He chose to believe Rose was asleep, and that his words were lost in the vast, empty house, or maybe in her dreams but for that he couldn't possibly be at fault.

“I came because... I just like being around you, I guess. Not just 'cause you're hot hot hot as a tater tot. Okay, that was a stupid joke, go ahead and make fun of me, I can take it.” He paused, almost as though for effect. “Okay, got nothing. Wanna know a secret?” He paused another time, but very shortly. “When we were kids, I had a crush on you.”

“I thought about it all the time. I had this dumb idea that I was going to move up here and propose to you. I was a really stupid kid. Saved every penny I ever got till Bro gave me a reality check because I didn't even know what I was going to _do_ when I got here, for a job and shit, and then you and me stopped talking and well, I should probably stop talking, too.”

Dave thought for just a second, voice dropping down even lower than a whisper. “Don't hold me to this, but a little bird's been a hell of a gossip and said I might still have a crush on you. To be honest, Rose, I think I...

I might love you.”

Rose slept the rest of the night with her back to him, but he could feel her shoulders rising and falling flush with his chest.

 

 

Dave left before ten that morning, again, like before. For three weeks it had ended just like that. For the last time, it ended just like that. When he called her, Rose didn't pick up her phone. It went to her voice mail every night. On Boxing Day the shopping center was packed, and every day following had less people thronging the stores. Shopkeepers hurried to restock and Dave commuted to his little media store, taking down the 'Closed for Xmas' sign.

He didn't think about Rose anymore. He shut that part of his mind down and mass-produced SBaHJ pages, hoping at least a few ideas would be salvageable in the case he got his show. He bought a couple of new books – _The Fountainhead_ and _The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills_. His brother didn't text him.

It was two weeks later that it started.

Dave came home from meeting with his animators a bit late. He'd been trying to work out if there were a good way to represent JPEG artifacts in a cartoon media format, and it hadn't been particularly fruitful. That wasn't such a big deal, though, as it was only his first time meeting with them and there'd be plenty more to come. He'd had a little to drink with them as a congratulations from his new team, so he took a cab.

His cab hit traffic because of a fender-bender, so he had to take a detour, but the detour got him home a little earlier than the original route would have. If none of that had happened, he would have missed her. A girl in a rather nice dark purple jacket was starting to walk away from his apartment complex, black boots scuffing the ground, hood pulled up over her head. It might have been the alcohol in his system, but he approached her, taking a hand from his pocket.

“Hey,” Dave started, “you okay? I can spring for a cab or something if you need to get home.”

She turned to him to check if he were talking to her, and her lavender eyes met his – not hidden behind shades.

“Rose?”

“Dave..” She narrowed her eyes just slightly in confusion. “I was waiting for you.”

“Shit, I was out. You were waiting for me?”

“Yes.”

Rose started to take a step forward and hesitated. Dave took the initiative. He closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her so tightly that they couldn't be separated again. He felt her soft blonde hair on her cheek and smiled brightly. It had only been two weeks, but he felt like he was being reunited with his childhood sweetheart again. She was so small and cold, but her breath was warm on her neck and he liked to think she was smiling, too.

When he pulled back, it was subtle – almost not there at all – but she was smiling, too.

“I built,” she started, very slowly and methodically, “an ivory palace around my heart, and wondered why no one was willing to scale the walls for me.”

He wanted to say something. He still smiled, but it faded, and the words failed him.

“I didn't realize that what waited on the other side was better than what I was protecting myself from, you see.”

They stood there in the light of streetlamps. She continued to speak and he had no words to talk to her with, nothing comforting or intelligent or even funny to break the tension. Mentally he kicked himself for that.

“Basically,” she said after a long pause, “I realized that I had to be the one to answer the door when you knocked, not wait for you to tear down everything I built up. I had to do that myself. So... I love you. Because the whole universe has conspired for me to be standing here at your dingy apartment building, and for you to be standing across from me with beer on your breath and that.. that smile. I like that. So because of that great conspiracy, I am standing here, and I love you.”

Dave stood there, dumbstruck.

“Would you like for me to tell everyone, to prove it? I will.” A smile crept onto her lips. “Everyone,” she began to shout, “I love Dave Strider!”

“I love Rose Lalonde!” He shouted in return, smiling broadly. “I always did.”

 

 

A small resin globe sat on her desk near to where she set her hands. It was a handmade gift; not flawless, but it never left her side, with its little preserved squid within. Her hands drummed impatiently. Her boyfriend laid on their bed with the radio next to his head, eyes closed as he listened. She was working on her novel. It was an analysis of the effects of one's childhood on the adult personality and, in turn, the adult distortion of childhood memories. Her publisher said she was brilliant.

They could afford a better place, but the condo was nice and had a good view. One could almost see the Hollywood sign from there.

“ _And now,_ ” said the radio host, “ _a reading of one of my favorite poems. I guess some people call me a sap. Have you_ heard _Pablo Neruda, though? Let me read it to you. It's Sonnet XVII._ ”

_I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_  
 _or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._  
 _I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_  
 _in secret, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you as the plant that never blooms_  
 _but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;_  
 _thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,_  
 _risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body._

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._  
 _I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_  
 _so I love you because I know no other way_

_than this: where I does not exist, nor you,_  
 _so close that your chest is in my hand,_  
 _so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep._

They smiled as though they were sharing a secret. Momentarily, she closed her eyes, too, and from just outside she could hear the sweet song of a house sparrow perched on the balcony rail.


End file.
